


And From Her Womb Crawled a Demon in Blood, Flesh and Bones

by Hlaalu



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Blood Kink, Boners, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Eagle Vision disturbances, Gen, Haunting, Horror, Kink Meme, Kittens, Violence, it's ugly, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hlaalu/pseuds/Hlaalu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr is doomed to fall when he develops an unhealthy fascination with blood and death. Malik is the only one to notice. Fill for the Kink Meme prompt "Creepy novice Altair and his fascination with blood".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for this prompt over on the asscreedkinkmeme: "Masyaf's head surgeon dissects a body in front of the novices and explains about different organs and their functions, ways to kill, and ways to survive. There's lots of blood - Altaїr likes it.
> 
> Time/ Setting is up to you. Historical (3rd Crusade) or Modern AU, everything is fine. 
> 
> Make it creepy, disturbing, gory, or all three. There shall be blood. ;)
> 
> Bonuses:  
> \- Malik is watching Altair and severely creeped out by the strange gleam in his eyes, but no one else notices  
> \- add a leap in time and let Altair put his theoretical knowledge to proper use  
> \- Altair has dreams of blood/ weird Eagle Vision disturbances (dead bodies that aren't really there or something. Make it disturbing.)
> 
> Super Bonus:  
> \- give an explanation for Altair's fascination (?) with blood (and/or death)"
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: Blood, gore, violence, etc. Assassins' business is ugly business.**
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own Assassin's Creed, obviously. That's all Ubisoft's toy.

Altaïr stared down at the ball of fur cradled in his arms. He no longer saw the difference between the mud and the blood that stuck to the hair and to his fingers and to his face, where he’d clamped his hand over his mouth in an attempt to drown out the sob that had threatened to slip out. His gaze was fixated on that one paw that he’d missed, the only part of its body that wasn’t damp from the fluids of its stomach. It was flawless, complete, perfect in a way Altaïr would never be again.

He’d found the thing in an alley, lost because of its blindness. A stray cat must have forgotten its litter, and he knew it was doomed to die if he didn’t help it. Small sounds had come from its throat as though it was but a little bird unable to fly, begging him to care, searching for his outstretched hand with blind eyes and a damp nose.

Altaïr, not more than twelve years of age, had been ready to take it under his wing. He hadn’t wanted it to die, the creed said not to harm an innocent, and if he let it there, it was to be either killed by the sun, caught by a wild animal or crushed under the foot of a rash merchant. And surely Al Mualim would be proud about his will to care for the helpless.

He carried it back to the fortress, making his way to the Grandmaster’s desk. He was thinking about naming the kitten Alya, after the open sky he’d found her under. “Would you like that, Alya?” he whispered into her fur.

Al Mualim was bent over a scroll, stroking his beard like he always was when in deep thought. The library was silent, the scholars seemingly floating between the shelves like ghosts. Altaïr tapped his foot lightly against the floor, waiting impatiently for his master to turn his attention towards him. He knew better than to distract him from his studies; the first time he’d done so, he’d walked away, the nape of his neck bloody from where the ornate embossing on his master’s cane had torn the skin open. He would just have to wait in silence and keep the kitten from tumbling over the nest of his arms.

A small, half-choked noise came from the kitten’s throat as it stared up at him blindly, questioningly, interrupting the perfect silence.

Al Mualim’s head snapped up, glaring, his eyebrows pulled together in irritation. He froze for a moment when he saw the thing Altaïr was holding protectively in his arms. Altaïr took a step towards his master, bowing his head in respect. “Safety and peace, Master.”

He didn’t move while he felt his master’s glare on him, turning his own gaze reluctantly towards the floor. Although he knew he ought to be humble towards the man who had received _al-ta’yid_ from the imam, he was also a very proud boy, unwilling to cower before anyone. He wasn’t weak.

Al Mualim got up from his seat, straightening his shoulders, before walking around his desk to tower over Altaïr. “Altaïr. What is this you have here?”

Altaïr looked up confused. “A kitten, Master.”

“Yes, but why?”

He swallowed heavily, gaze flickering to the man’s blind eye that was covered in a milky white, the eyelid immobile from the scarring, yellow pus sticking it together at the edges. “I found her in the village, Master. She has lost her mother.”

His master frowned. “ _She_?”

“Yes, Master. Her name is Alya.”

The frown deepened and Al Mualim sighed staring down at him over his nose. “What have I taught you about our creed?”

Altaïr paused, unsure of what to say. He was pretty certain that the creed didn’t say anything about kittens. “I… I don’t-”

“Do not disappoint me, Altaïr.”

“The creed says that nothing is true and everything is permitted. It tells us to stay our blade from the flesh of an innocent, to hide in plain sight, so that we may never compromise the Brotherhood.” The words tumbled over Altaïr’s lips without a moment’s hesitation. It had been the first thing Al Mualim had taught him, he’d spent hours on the tips of his toes on a bed of nails until the creed had been the only thing he could think of. Never would he forget it.

“Exactly, boy. Now tell me, why do you disregard our creed to present me with a stray cat’s brat?”

Altaïr felt like shrinking into the floor. “I-I didn’t-”

“Answer my question, novice.”

He gritted his teeth behind his lips for a second. “I saved her from certain death, Master. I do not see what I did wrong.”

A dry smile erupted on his master’s face. “Clearly. You have learnt nothing, I see.”

Altaïr was careful not to let his anger show. Of course he’d learnt! He was the best of all novices and soon to become a journeyman although far younger than the normal age.

Al Mualim gripped his cane from behind his desk and approached him slowly, his eyes cold and hard as stone. “I will show mercy and enlighten you this time. I will make it simple. Why did you save the kitten and not just leave it to Allah’s will?”

“…pity, Master.”

“Yes. Pity. It poisons your blade with hesitation, with trust. You become inconsistent, unsure, _weak_. What does a weak assassin mean to the Brotherhood?”

“Nothing.”

Al Mualim’s lips grew into a thin line. “Wrong.” The tip of his cane tapped eagerly against his leg and Altaïr flinched in apprehension.

“I do not-”

“Danger, boy. A weak assassin means danger. A weak assassin is always one step away from breaking the most important of tenets. Which is?”

Altaïr didn’t dare breathing and kept his eyes glued to Al Mualim’s boots. “He might compromise the Brotherhood, Master.”

“Yes.” He stepped closer, resting his hand on Altaïr’s head. “Do you see why you need to be punished?”

Altaïr didn’t answer but set down the kitten to his feet, grabbed the hem of his cowl and pulled the cloth over his head, ruffling his hair in the process, baring the nape of his neck to Al Mualim.

“ _Do_ you, boy?”

“I do, Master.”

He trembled slightly when fingers stroked through his hair, nails catching in his scalp, and his head was pushed back roughly for him to look up at his master. “Kneel.”

Altaïr did as he was told, getting to his knees, careful not to hit the kitten that was curled on the stone floor unable to carry her own weight. Al Mualim stared down at him with half-lidded eyes, the smile not travelling beyond his mouth. His cane grazed Altaïr’s thigh and he swallowed thickly. “See what a good boy you can be?” the Grandmaster said, stroking his thumb over Altaïr’s chin.

He let go of his face and pulled the dagger from the curved sheath in his belt, handing it to his novice. Altaïr stared at it for a second, unsure of what to do with it, before he curled his trembling fingers around the hilt, feeling its weight in his hand. His eyes followed the way his master’s boots took when he stepped behind Altaïr, his body a looming presence behind his back that made him shiver. “Now do your deed, assassin.”

Altaïr didn’t understand at first, fiddling with the blade in his hands, flinching once again when the cold metal of Al Mualims cane nudged the nape of his neck and then hovered over him, tickling the skin over the bump where neck met spine, waiting like the breath of death. His head was pushed down so hard that his chin smashed against his chest and he swallowed a sound of discomfort. 

“Will you not follow your master’s orders?”

Alya uttered a few needy sounds, probably crying for her mother, one pointed furry ear twitching at her own noises. She’d pulled herself up on her front paws, shaking slightly from the strain, her short tail curled limply over one unresponsive leg. Confused, he lowered his gaze to the dagger in his hand. The cane once again prodded against the nape of his neck, and he froze when realisation hit him hard.

No. No. _Please_ , no. Cold spread through his stomach, rooting him to the spot. Al Mualim couldn’t possibly-

“Do I have to hit you again for you to do what I told you to?”

He opened his mouth to say _yes, indeed, hit me with all your force but don’t make me do this_ , but then Al Mualim’s breath ghosted over his ear, catching in his hair. “You are one failure of an assassin. Your father would be _ashamed_ of you.”

The cane left the nape of his neck, but Altaïr knew it was not for pity but in order to crash down onto him. He didn’t have time to think. He didn’t want time to think. He grabbed Alya – _the kitten, Altaïr, it is but an animal_ – by her tail so she wouldn’t slip away, ignoring the quiet mewl from her throat, curled his fist tightly around the hilt of Al Mualim’s dagger and buried the blade with all his force in her small body, the soft flesh and fur no resistance to the cold gleaming steel.

He didn’t hear the hushed sounds of pain from the kitten, too loud was his own erratic breathing, the thunder of his blood rushing through his ears. He stabbed it again and again, waiting for the cane or its silver hilt that was to hit his back and neck, until his fingers slipped from the handle that was spoiled and moist with blood. It never came.

Splashes of red danced in the greyish fogged world before his eyes. A blue figure in the corner of his eye turned towards him, and so did the disfigured, undefined, black grimaces in his sight, staring at him both in horror and delight, laughing, pointing, accusing, and he grabbed the kitten’s body in fury, now a shapeless mess of blood, flesh, juices, fur, and collapsing bones… and a perfect paw.

Finally, the cane came down onto him, hitting the protruding bone where skull and spine connected, and pain flashed white behind Altaïr’s eyelids.

The noise in his ears stopped. The library was as quiet as before. He opened his eyes, whimpering from the agony that was still crawling down his spine and over his skull to his jaw, hot and unrelenting, and the world tilted before him. Altaïr wanted to vomit, but found he couldn’t. Clamping his bloodied hand over his mouth, he drowned the sob before it could form completely. When his knees gave out and he tumbled to the side, catching himself on his hands, Al Mualim stepped around him, his boots nudging the kitten’s head… or where it had been. 

“You may leave, novice.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Blood, gore, violence, etc. Assassins' business is ugly business.**

Despite the merciless heat of the _Bilad ash-Shâm_ during Ramadan, the ancient stone walls of the Masyaf fortress radiated cold and indifference. They seemed to move in the dancing light of the candles, laughing at him silently, watching him. The screeching of steel on steel and the shouts of the instructors echoed from the other side of the courtyard, distorting the noises beyond recognition. The humid air came creeping in through the window at Malik’s back and draped itself over him, the cold sweaty fabric of his novice robes clinging to his skin.

Malik stared down at the body before him, skin covering bones so thin he could have broken them with his bare hands. The man’s shoulders were slim and weak, his collar and cheek bones protruding sharply. He must have been a beggar, always just one step away from breaking apart when stumbling, mumbling away on the side of the street where it was a matter of time until the city guards replaced him with a red stain in the dirt, before his life had found an abrupt end. Malik knew he should have pitied the man, but he had a hard time doing so when all he could see was flesh stretching over a ribcage and dry lips hiding an incomplete set of rotting teeth. His eyes sitting in hollow sockets were closed lightly as if he was just taking a nap and at the same time, he looked nothing like he was sleeping. The skin was too pale, greyish, worn-out like old leather, his face rigid enough to be made of layers of wax that could be peeled off with his fingernails.

A shiver ran through Malik’s limbs that had nothing to do with the cold. He quickly averted his eyes and shared a glance with Rauf. The boy looked at him for a second before staring back at their instructor as if waiting for permission to take the breath he was clearly holding against the sweet, rotten stench of the dead body. The faces of his fellow novices all showed different degrees of disgust, horror, and a certain measure of apathy. Altaïr on the other side of the table looked completely relaxed, bored even, despite his looming presence that had some of the weaker novices already breaking a sweat. He must have felt Malik’s eyes lingering on him because he scowled at him from underneath his hood. Malik glared right back at him before turning his attention to the instructor. The man was mumbling under his breath, and Malik wasn’t sure if he was praying for the dead man or for forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit… strange how men who were raised to kill still worshipped Allah while acting against their belief.

One of the novices – probably Hani, a boy of weak physical condition after barely surviving an infection to his entrails, aspiring to become a scribe in Al Mualims library – sucked in a sharp breath when the instructor wrapped his fingers around the heavily ornamented hilt of the curved knife that sat under his belt. It hissed silently when he pulled it out, gleaming lasciviously, eager to bury itself deeply in a twitching body, muscles throbbing around the blade. Not another second was wasted, and it was pressed to the soft skin of the dead’s belly, the force of its curve imbedding itself into a small valley of skin before breaking it and sliding in without a sound.

Malik’s eyes widened and his mouth went dry. The flesh hugged the blade tightly, almost lovingly, thick blood creeping over the ragged edges of the wound. His gaze followed the path of one drop that gathered in a small crease before spilling over and slowly licking down the man’s side, following the sharp curve of his pelvis to where his skin touched the white cloth underneath, and easing onto the fabric soaking it up greedily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hani bend over slightly, wrapping his arms around his middle in sympathy with the dead. 

The instructor leaned over and pulled the blade towards the man’s ribcage in a straight line, the wound gaping open, swallowing the air and spitting out thick waves of blood, almost as if following the pulse of a long dead heart. The body seemed to deflate slowly, sinking further onto the table. A festering, acrid smell drifted towards Malik’s nose and he swallowed heavily against the bile rising in his throat. Blood stained the sheets under the body, it wandered across the fabric and spread like fingers reaching out to clench around Malik’s wrist. The blade was feeding on the dark liquid hungrily as though it was milk. He knew that if the man had been alive, a blood-freezing cry would have been torn from his throat while the knife split his body in two, not enough to kill a man, but enough to throw him into madness. A man hurt like this would die slowly, sprawled on his back in the dust, arms gripping around his middle, from the loss of blood and his bowels drying.

Malik grabbed the seam of his robes to hide the trembling in his fingers, and watched a drop that clung to the edge of the cloth and dropped to the floor, its bright red colour a sharp contrast against the stone. The novices that weren’t frozen in place shuffled back a few steps, but one pair of boots caught his attention, the leather moving to toes wriggling impatiently inside. He looked up to the boy the boots belonged to.

Altaïr’s face was covered in the shadows of his hood, his mouth set in a firm line, but Malik could see the flame of the candle reflecting in his eyes that were glued to the stain of blood on the floor for a moment, before they followed the movements of the instructor that had come to a halt at the man’s collar bone. Altaïr looked… different. Interested. _Intent_.

Malik shuddered and turned back to the instructor. He had placed down his knife and was beckoning them to step closer. Malik’s stomach threatened to turn when the man pressed his fingers to the fleshy edges of the wound, just above the dead man’s navel, pulling them apart just slightly. Lathering blood spilled over his hands and shifted underneath his fingernails, smearing over the torso in orange, brown, and red waves, drawing sinister patterns when he slipped. Rauf was peering over the tabletop, as were some of the more adventurous novices, while Hani and Abbas were leaning against the wall, their eyes turned towards the floor. When Altaïr stepped forward and stared down at the wound boldly, Malik decided he would risk a glance as well.

The instructor gripped the bloodied tissue and pulled the skin back slightly. Malik tried to ignore the muddy, wet sound when his fingers took hold of the flesh, blood crawling over the edges, slurping; tried to convince himself that this was not a man, it was not a living thing, it was _not_ -

The drooling wound parted like a maw, yawning and spitting. A mixture of brown, watery yellow, and red liquids opened before Malik’s eyes, and it was as though it was sucking him in to chew him and vomit him out again. He could barely see the man’s innards; it didn’t look a _bit_ like Galen’s map-like sketches he had studied in the library. Flesh and mucous tissue glared back at him, and he gripped the edge of the table – his knees threatened to give away. He wasn’t prepared to see this, to know what was crawling around in his body like worms, what happened to the men he was commanded to kill.

He let his gaze drift away, nauseous from the stench of torn wounds and bared organs, the sweaty shimmer of bloodied flesh and acids and the blood that dripped steadily and heavily onto the stone floor, whispering and gulping, gathering in viscous pools at their feet. Most novices had turned away or were staring at the body with wide eyes from as far away from it as possible. The instructor still had his hands clenched in the wound to open it up for them to watch, but he didn’t speak a word. This lesson was not for them to learn, but to separate the weak from the strong, the sensible from the mad. Rauf next to him swallowed heavily and then took a few steps back to brace against the wall. Altaïr had not moved an inch. Malik narrowed his eyes. 

Hidden from sight in the shadow of his hood, Altaïr’s lips were parted, the newly acquired scar slashing through them in a burning red. His hands were hovering at the height of his waist, fingers flexing and closing into fists. The golden flecks in his eyes were barely visible, covered up by the black abysses of widened pupils gleaming at the sight. 

A shiver ran down Malik’s spine, his heart held in a freezing grip, and he stepped away silently. When Altaïr’s head snapped up, his eyes fixating on him, he stared back at him not even daring to frown or blink.

His hands were clammy when he turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilad ash-Shâm (“land to the left”, meaning “north”) was the medieval Arabic term for a region including modern Syria, Jordan, the Lebanon, Israel and Palestine.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Blood, gore, violence, etc. Assassins' business is ugly business.**

Altaïr was an assassin, a handcrafter. He was an artist, and blood was his paint, the dust of Jerusalem his canvas. And who knew better about his tools than the artisan himself? His Eagle Vision let him see the pulse of his victims, a steady flickering like a candle licked by a cold breeze. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing through their veins, how it seemed to freeze for a second when they realised who and what he was. This was why he liked to kill while using Eagle Vision.

But it was just as good without.

They had cornered him in an alley after playing cat and mouse for quite a while, oblivious to the fact that Altaïr had long since taken over the role of the cat. There he stood, a shadowy figure clad in white, surrounded by heavily armed guards, _smiling_. Judging by the hesitation in their eyes, they already had some experience with his kin. Their blood was both boiling from the chase and cold from fear, and Altaïr knew this was a fatal combination. 

The first guard charged at him, his chain mail announcing his movements. Altaïr took a quick step back so that the force of the man’s blow threw him out of balance, and he stumbled. Altaïr was right there, stepping between the man’s flailing arms as if waiting for an embrace, and let his Eagle Vision take over like a wild beast let out of its cage. Then he felt the urge. No, it was an _itch_ in the nape of his neck, an itch he’d always felt – ever since the kitten – when all he wanted to do was to cut, to kill, to _devastate_.

He could have rammed his blade into the guard’s armpit. Blood: a lot. Death: slow. Silent: no. The man’s thigh almost presented itself to him, as it was outstretched to keep the man from falling, the vein underneath glowing brightly in his Vision. It would have been nice to slice it open, just to watch it spitting out gulps of blood, just to watch the man sprawling to the ground, crying for mercy and clutching his leg with trembling hands. Blood: a lot. Death: slow. Silent: no. But unfortunately, an enemy who was defeated and weak and almost dead was sometimes more dangerous than one still hoping to live. So Altaïr went for the third option.

His short blade slashed across the guard’s throat, slicing it open, the wound weeping blood in big waves of crimson all over the hilt of the blade, his hands, his robes, his face. Death: almost immediate. Silent: yes.

He didn’t even watch him fall. He stepped forward, parrying the next man’s two blows with ease. The guard was trembling, his hands shaking while trying his luck and probably praying to Allah. Altaïr grinned at him, his tongue sneaking out to catch the drop of blood that clung to the corner of his mouth, collecting it, savouring the sickly sweet taste, and the man’s eyes widened in horror. His sword clattered to the floor, and Altaïr took his chance, slapping him in the face with his left hand so hard that he was bent over before him from the force of the blow. With a satisfied growl, he buried his blade in the nape of his neck, just where the tender flesh joined skull. The guard choked, he could feel the muscles of his throat tensing and contracting around the blade in his fist, the warm spill of spit and blood over his boots; the man tumbled into the dust, grunting and drooling, a wet rasp leaving his throat whenever he gasped for air.

The next two guards attacked him together, one with a fierce shout. Altaïr ducked their blades, dancing around them, laughing silently, and dealt weak blows to their arms and hands, just enough to draw wounds in ornate patterns over their skin. They bled shallowly, soaking into the fabric of their caftans. His hands were all moist and slippery from the blood that crawled down the curve of his blade.

They grew desperate quickly, their swords cutting through the thick air, sweat dripping down their temples. Exhaustion was gnawing on their arms, weighing them down. Altaïr decided to have… mercy on them, slashing his blade in a vicious arch through the torso of the younger guard, who didn’t wear chain mail. Agony disfigured the man as he screamed and clutched his yawning front weakly, almost disbelievingly, before his knees gave out and the juices of his bowels mixed with the sandy ground. The other man looked terrified when he attacked with a yelp that almost sounded like a sob. Altaïr slipped through under his sword and stepped closer with a fierce snarl, about to deal a blow to the guard’s leg to bring him down, when something moved all too quickly in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head around, but before he even realised what happened, something hit him in his right shoulder with so much force that it pushed him backwards. Pain shot through his body and a bark left his throat when his heels bumped into a limb and sent him tumbling over onto his back. His fingers gripped his blade tightly, threatening to give out from the pain in his shoulder, and his left hand clutched at the bolt that had dug itself into his clenching muscles. Altaïr hissed, swallowing down the cry of agony when he pulled it out, and felt his pupils contracting. There was hot blood, and this time it was his own, dribbling down his chest, cold seeping into his right arm as it quickly grew numb. Now he was mad. _Really_ mad.

He looked up just in time to see the guard towering over him, drawing back his sword to bring it down through his chest, and he threw himself forward, shoving his blade and the bloodied bolt into the man’s stomach. He groaned hoarsely, his blood and juices spilling over Altaïr from above, one drop hitting the corner of his eye, tinting the white of his eyeball a deep red. Rolling away before he could be buried underneath the dying man, he caught the sweaty hilt of the guard’s sword, getting to his feet and stabbing him in the back for good measure.

A gasp brought his attention to the last man that turned away, deciding to do the reasonable thing and try to save his own life as long as he could. His eyes zeroed in on the crossbow in the soldier’s hands. With a snort he closed his fist around the tip of his short blade and threw it with all the strength in his left arm, growling quietly. It sliced through the air with a hiss and embedded itself to the hilt in the man’s side. Altaïr wrinkled his nose irritably. Not his best throw, but his left hand had always been his weaker side after they had taken his ring finger. 

The guard stumbled and slid to the ground with a groan. Altaïr’s strides were angry as he stalked towards his victim, who tried to crawl away from him, breaking down whimpering when he moved. He nudged his wounded side with his foot so he was forced to turn over, and perched himself on the man’s chest, tucking his legs to his sides and pinning him down by his shoulders with his knees. The guard mewled in fear and pain, his wide eyes terrified, lips parted in distress. Altaïr could smell the panic in the blood curling from the gash in the man’s side. He pulled out his blade from the other’s flesh, grabbing him by his hair, his nails scratching over his scalp, and pulled his head back, wild glare fixated on the guard’s face, baring his teeth in a sneer.

So many possibilities. So many ways to kill the man; some of them slowly, all of them cruel. He could smash the hilt of his blade into the guard’s Adam’s apple, damaging his trachea, and leave him to suffocate in the middle of the alleyway. He could scratch the man’s artery slightly and watch him bleed to death drop by drop. Or he could simply give in to his fury and slice through his neck so his business would be done quickly. But he didn’t want to let this opportunity slip.

The man whimpered again when Altaïr pushed up his chin and set down the tip of his blade just below, halfway between his jaw and the moving bump of his Adam’s apple. He gasped for air, but didn’t dare thrashing about. A grin spread over Altaïr’s face, his scar tugging at his lips stretching wide and pale. His eyes gleamed, pupils blown wide, when he leaned down. “ _Tisbah `ala khair_ , bastard.” And his hand started pressing upwards slowly.

The tip of the blade parted the skin easily, the man crying out hoarsely. Blood spilled over Altaïr’s hand and the man’s chest, soiling Altaïr’s pants at the crotch. When his throat tightened against the intruder, he started trembling, tears flowing down his cheeks and into his hairline to gather in the shell of his ear. Altaïr though was too far gone to hear anything. He pushed up quickly, through the resisting flesh, feeling the muscles pulsing and clinging themselves around the blade, and his breath rushed over the dying man’s face in a hot wave. The guard’s voice dissolved into nothing as he choked, his throat rattling and slurping when he tried and failed to gasp for air, the blade having torn his airways. The blood dripped from the corners of his mouth over his chin, and finally, _finally_ , Altaïr pushed the blade all the way in, to the hilt. His shoulder screamed in pain, still weeping blood, but he didn’t feel it. His gaze was focused on the way his victim’s eyes turned grey and into his skull, his body arching one last time, before his face froze in a grotesque grimace of pure agony.

Altaïr pushed out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding in. A light smile still tugged at his parted lips, bloodied fingerprints and stains all over his face and robes, when he collected himself from the body, getting up and pulling the blade out with the movement, producing a sound like a boot stuck in mud. Without so much as one glance back on the massacre he’d created, he sheathed his short sword and took off in a sprint. 

Soon enough the mess he’d made would alert every living soul of Jerusalem to his presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tisbah `ala khair” is Arabic for “Good night” and can only be used towards males.


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Blood, gore, violence, etc. Assassins' business is ugly business. Also: traces of Slash, but not enough to tag.**

When Altaïr groggily opened his eyes, there was a figure hovering over him. He recognised greyish robes, a dark tanned face framed by a hood, and he stared into the depths of the shadows searching for the man’s eyes. It was obviously a Brother, draped in white and red cloth, the beak of his hood drawing bird-like features over his face.

Altaïr groaned and blinked heavily, trying to shake both numbness and sleep from his limbs. He was at the bureau, that much he knew, the cold light of an early morning sun swallowed by clouds slipping through the lattice and vomiting down onto him; but he didn’t know how he got here. Somewhere on his way across Jerusalem, he’d hunted down a group of guards… but that was all he could remember.

The man finally moved, lifting a hand to his hood to push it down. Altaïr gasped as if he’d been stabbed, eyes wide, trying to crawl away through the wall at his back. He yelped when the injury in his right shoulder gave a sharp jab of pain at the movement, his flexing fingers clutching at the skin above when he realised he didn’t even wear his robes. Broad bandages were wrapped around his chest and shoulder, but he knew he’d been stitched up when he felt the threads tugging at his flesh like they wanted to eat him. The assassin grinned down at him, his dry lips stretching over two rows of half-rotten teeth, and stepped closer. “ _Salam_ , Brother. Long time no see.”

Altaïr swallowed heavily, feeling remarkably blue eyes, bleached out from the kiss of death, digging into his own. “K-Kadar-”

The man laughed, his voice, though still as soft as it had been, now a gurgling, throaty sound as though it had been bathed in his stomach’s juices. “But that is impossible, isn’t it? For the dead do not talk.”

Trying to regain a posture of strength and authority, Altaïr bared his teeth in pain. He noticed dark fog building around him, swallowing all colours except Kadar himself, who started glowing in a weak blue. The entrance to the bureau vanished in black, the objects around him losing their shape until they were mere clouds in his sight. His eyes narrowed from the strain of his Eagle Vision, and he shook his head. “No. Everything is permitted, after all.”

Kadar’s head snapped up. “Ah. Eager to follow the creed _now_ , are we not.” Altaïr felt the urge to hiss, scratch and bite when guilt tightened his throat as though trying to suffocate him. He cursed under his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he still had the shadows of his hood to hide in. Even through death Kadar hadn’t lost the ability to glare like his brother could.

“What do you want?” Altaïr growled, his Eagle Vision flickering before his eyes in a steady pulse.

Kadar crouched to his side, and the sweet smell of rotten flesh, festering under the greedy mouths of moths and worms, crawled from his body. His bony fingers pushed back a strand of dry hair, ignoring the way it came loose from his skull, sticking to his hand when he pulled it away to pin Altaïr to the ground when he tried to slip away. “I thought you’d be happy to see me, Brother.”

His tongue was black like the head of a venomous viper when he licked his lips, leaving a trail of yellow pus in its wake, and he leaned closer. A shiver went through Altaïr’s weakened body and his gaze dropped to Kadar’s torso – dark red stains bloomed in the middle of his chest, spreading like a bud, soaking the fabric before dribbling in slow, sticky trails over Altaïr’s bandage. Kadar smiled and pushed out a breath that washed over his face. Altaïr’s sight flickered again, heavier this time, pulsing in and out of life, the darkness of Eagle Vision enveloping him further in a cold embrace, Kadar’s sickly glowing shape weary like a dream. He was gripped by the wrist, bringing his hand closer to the dead man’s chest, and he trembled when his fingers plunged into the wet heat of injured flesh. He couldn’t stop them from curling inside the wound, tugging at skin from within, feeling the tight grip of human insides that didn’t want to let him go. White noise filled his ears when trails of blood tickled down his arm, following the dips and creases of his muscles and bones in feverish gulps, more and more blinding his sight in glowing red streaks, and he wanted to bathe in it, drink it, lick up everything Kadar’s dead body had to give, let it soak his clothes, moisten his hands with it to wrap them around his stiff manhood-

“Kadar…”

He was almost there when a bright blue silhouette pushed into the corner of his eye, ripping him apart, and the noise stopped, his loud breathing the only sound echoing from the walls of the garden. His body felt hot, his shoulder ached while his blood sang in his veins, and his sight went back to normal. Kadar was gone, licks of red creeping through his bandages and staining the pillows he was sprawled across. Cold sweat coated his brow, his erection throbbing underneath the cloth of his trousers that were still caked with gore, his left hand curled around his heavy flesh aching with need.

“You… _disgust_ me.”

Altaïr looked up to see Malik standing frozen in the doorway to his bureau, dark ink splattered over his boots from the shattered pot to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> It was in fact a firm belief of many of his followers that Rashid ad-Din Sinan (Al Mualim) had been gifted with “al-ta’yid” (a spiritual gift) by a Persian imam before travelling to Masyaf on behalf of the Brotherhood to take over the fortress from its former mentor, Abu Muhammad. The legend says that the gift provided him with special powers such as seeing through lies and exposing traitors before they could act (Eagle Vision? I see what you did there, Ubisoft…).


End file.
